Journalist B.D. Colen photographed his own mammogram during the procedure. ((c) B. D. Colen, 2014)
By B. D. Colen
It began with an itch I just had to scratch. Doesn’t every adventure begin that way?
I was lying in bed reading on a Saturday evening, and without even looking I idly scratched a spot on the right side of my chest –- at that point I had a chest, not breasts. As I did, my fingers rode over a small something, a little like a speed bump about an inch below and two inches to the left of my right nipple.
I stopped reading and started poking. And prodding. And pushing. And feeling. And manipulating. And panicking.
“That’s a lump!” I thought, and suddenly I had a right breast. With a lump in it.
I spent Sunday attending to the usual chores and pleasures, with a good deal of poking and prodding added in. There was absolutely no question that something was dwelling there, beneath my AAAA right breast. But what was it? And what was I worried about? After all, I’m a man, and men don’t…Well, yes, men do get breast cancer. In fact about one in every thousand men will develop breast cancer during their lifetimes. Granted, that’s barely worth mentioning compared to a woman’s one-in-nine chances, but it still means that the possibility was indeed real that something ugly and malignant was barely hiding beneath my skin.
The following day, I already had an appointment with my primary care physician about something else, and when we were finished I said, “So, Sam, I seem to have this lump in my right breast.”
(Photo (c.) B.D. Colen, 2014)
Suddenly, my normally garrulous physician grew serious. “Let’s take a look,” he said, asking me to lie down on the examining table. He had me show him where I thought the lump was and I instantly isolated it – I’d already felt the damned thing enough times to be able to go right to it.
He felt it, felt around it, poked and prodded, and in less than a minute said, “You’re right, there’s something there.” Then, without further kidding – which I’d expect from him – and without any “Well, it’s probably nothing, but let’s be sure,” he sat down at the computer and started typing. “I’m putting in an order for a ultrasound and a mammogram,” he said. “For tomorrow.”
Mammowhat?! Mammogram? Me? But I’m a man! And at 67? Is this some really, really weird dream I’m about to wake up from? How in God’s name were they going to do a mammogram when there’s practically no mam on my chest?
But into the rabbit hole, through the door marked “Women (almost) Only” I went. Though not before Googling “male breast cancer” and convincing myself that I was going to die: Family history? Check. Average age of 68? Check. Sometimes Google is not your friend.
The nice woman down in radiology scheduled me for 10 the next morning, and told me that I shouldn’t worry. “It’s probably nothing,” she assured me. I thought, “That’s probably what you tell all the guys.”
I don’t need to tell any of you who are women what a painful, essentially degrading experience having a mammogram is. I’ve since read the jokes advising women to prepare for the procedure by placing a breast on the edge of their freezer and slamming the door on it – and that is pretty close to the reality. Continue reading